


iterum

by misthalleries



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person, Weird-Ass Interpretation of Mine, ignore me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misthalleries/pseuds/misthalleries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans knows many things. That isn't necessarily a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	iterum

**Author's Note:**

> Also... app. The other one I'm proud of. I don't know what kind of interpretation I'm going for, but hey. Character studies are cool as heck.

you wonder if it would’ve been any better if you actually retained memories of the other timelines. the other worlds. maybe it could be for the best, from— whatever half-sympathetic deity’s out there, for you not to remember everything, only to see it in the photos you don’t remember taking.  
the surface. wide. large. big. grass and trees and mountains and oceans, grander than you could even imagine.

the sunlight. golden rain, warm palms on cheeks, an embrace from the heavens.

the stars. jewels tickling a frosted black sky, sweeping wide and high, draped from horizon to horizon.

the sky. an endless ceiling that reaches up and up and up and into— forever.

and— all your friends, and you, and your brother, and the human, together and—

...happy.

(it’s stupidly poetic.)

maybe you do remember it, sort of. maybe. you see things— you remember things— you dream of things— but they could simply just be dreams. just be imagination. an old childish naivety prodding at you with a sort of hope, even after you’ve abandoned it all. or meant to abandon it all. but— you don’t really believe in hope, anymore. because it’s probably worse to actually— see it all, remember it all, experience it all, just— just go through it all, the beauty and wonder and utter awe of the outside world, just to have it all—

all just—

taken away.

again and again and again and again.

maybe it’s worse, this way, actually. maybe it’d be better to be blissfully unaware, to be thrown back into hell and not know what happened. after all, that’s what it’s like with everyone else. simply deja vu. hints of something lost, something forgotten, something else— though there’s not enough pieces to truly piece the puzzle together. so they brush it off as coincidence— don’t see the shadows creeping up behind, crawling up their backs. don't feel the loops of time strangling them, the noose tightening with every reset, trapped here again— and again— and again—

you just wish it was the same with you.

you may not remember, exactly (unless these haunting dreams, these chocking nightmares of death and suffering and battles with the devil themself, counts as remembering) but you sure as hell know. you may only have those glimpses— those snippets— but you've been cursed with the knowledge of what they really are, have the rest of the picture to fill it all in. all those timelines. all those worlds. starting and stopping and wheeling around at the most unusual of places, here and there and everywhere— you think that yellow flower might have something to do with it, but you can't be sure. you've got an eye for this kind of thing— don't have to remember all the timelines to see what's happened, because even time resets can't erase the weight of burden, the far-reaching claws of consequence— but when the human arrives, you know you've found the anomaly. see it in their eyes, see flashbacks of fine dust on their hands, of stacked deaths in their eyes. but even then— well. you can't really be angry at them, and your mind returns to that yellow flower.

(but you see them, before you— an old worn knife in hand, a heart-shaped locket swinging from their neck— and you remember numerous, numerous, deaths; papyrus and undyne and mettaton and many, many more, and you’re there, alone, protecting the king, their judgement standing before them, forced to take matters in their own hand,

and you think—

could it really be them?)

it's ridiculous, really. if you'd known this would've happened— along with everything else— you would've never agreed to do the work you’ve done. though of course you didn't actually know. never could've known. you suppose, then, you're just suffering the consequences of a stupid mistake. still, though. you sometimes wish your were like everyone else. because it's not always best to know.

or maybe you’re just lying to yourself. hell if you know. you’ve been doing it so long— it’s hard to tell when the truth starts and where it ends, where the lies begin and whether you’ll ever truly escape from them.

so you’ve leant yourself to a sort of numbness. a relief. you’ve always liked puns, a couple of well-meant jokes and word plays, here and there— have always practiced them alone at the door before the ruins, then shared them with the strange woman on the other side. so you turn to them. prance with them like a drunken fellow, to wave it away (even for a little while); to keep your mind off of things, to keep your sanity and your skull from spinning right off as you balance a tightrope of too much knowing and of too much responsibility and of too much of everything— of too much of it all.

but you can’t keep this up forever. maybe it’s cowardice, at the end of it all. sometimes you wonder why you even bother to keep up at this, sometimes.

and then you see papyrus, grinning, as you arrive home— he’s holding up two plates of his spaghetti, greeting you loudly and cheerily as you arrive, and you remember why you ever do anything at all.

your brother. oh, god, you love him so much. it’s always felt as if it was— you and paps, against the world. before you never had to worry about determination or freakish timelines or anomalies in spacetime, only you and your brother.

now you realize it’s only you against the world.

doesn’t mean you have to be alone in other things, though, and papyrus is more than enough, for that. yeah, he’s boisterous, and eccentric, and a little egotistical and rather narcissistic— but he’s not selfish. he’s anything but selfish. he’s a sweetheart, through and through— he’s the coolest and most amazing individual you’ve ever known, has more faith in others than you could even begin to imagine.

(but you see fresh dust on the snow, a lone, blood-red scarf fluttering alone atop it all, a child clambering away with a knife glinting in their hand, and you’re trembling—

trembling—)

you sometimes wish you could, though— maybe have it, too. wish you have that optimism— that will to go forwards, no matter what. to work hard, no matter what. everyone says you could take a few pages out of your brother’s book, and you wholeheartedly agree.

only if it was that easy.

doesn’t mean it doesn’t totally rub off of you, though. you’ve said you’ve given up hope of getting back to the surface, but you remember how pap’s always dreamed of cruising down a highway, and when you’re doing your regular procrastinating (you’re proud of your ability to barely-pass; despite what papyrus says you’re convinced it’s a talent) you find yourself reading car magazines the humans’ dumped over at waterfall. say there’s no purpose, for anything— but you’re still playing santa, after all these years, buying him action figures every year and keeping his letters back to santa— back to you— just for sentimentality.

he’s all that keeps you going, after all.

though, sometimes— even he doesn’t feel like enough. nothing ever feels like enough, anymore.

but. well. that kinda thing doesn’t really matter, does it? you’ve forced yourself to stop caring, after all. why bother yourself anymore?

though— you still find yourself watching them. a kind of judgement, almost; one that you’ve appointed yourself to, however silly that may sound. hovering a little behind, leaning on a wall with closed eyes, listening, silent. tracking their actions, their execution points, their level of violence. and— they’re doing well, this time. you hear them befriending everyone, talking to everyone, not tossing even a single hit— and, despite yourself, you find yourself smiling, a little.

and despite everything, you hope.

maybe this time, it’ll end.


End file.
